by Glenn Rogers
“I appreciate that,” I said.
“Me, too,” Alex said.
Christine drained her coffee cup, looked at her watch and said, “So who do I thank for breakfast?”
“That would be me,” Alex said.
“Thanks,” she said. “See you at the office.”
Chapter 17
The waitress refilled Alex's coffee cup and asked if I wanted more hot water for another cup of tea. I thanked her, but said I was fine.
“Not bad,” Alex said. “Tell them we've got an informant in the syndicate who's going to figure out who the syndicate's informant is. Might make whoever it is nervous. Nudge him into having a meeting with his contact.”
“If only we had enough people we trust to watch each of the suspects,” I said.
“Even more difficult,” Alex said, “when two of the suspects are now at different locations.”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe work the same scam in the other direction,” I said.
“You mean lead the syndicate to believe that we have an informant in their organization?”
“If we can make everyone nervous,” I said, “maybe someone will make a mistake.”
Just as I finished my tea, my phone rang. A photo of my nephew, Taylor, came up on the screen.
“Morning, Taylor. What can I do for you?”
“Uncle Jake. I need your help.”
“Yeah? Tell me.”
“Today is parent career day in my class. Dad was supposed to come to school with me and talk about being an attorney. But he got the flu. He barfed and everything. Really gross. So he can’t come.”
“Wow, man. I’m sorry to hear that. How can I help?”
“I need you to come talk to my class today about being a private detective.”
“Ooo, Taylor, I don’t know about that. I’m right in the middle to two different investigations. I don’t really have …”
“Come on Uncle Jake,” Taylor whined. “I’ll be the only one in class who doesn’t have a parent to talk about what he does.”
Alex was listening to my end of the conversation with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
“Yeah, but I’m not your parent. If it’s parent career day, I don’t really …”
“Yeah but that will be okay,” he said, interrupting me, “’cause you’re my uncle. That’s close enough. Jennifer’s uncle is coming, too. On account of her dad took off with his secretary and they live in Costa Rico now. So it’s okay.”
I took a deep breath. “Taylor, I don’t …”
“Come on, Uncle Jake. Please. Your presentation will be the best one because what you do is really cool. That will make Amanda think that I’m really cool.”
“Amanda?”
“Yeah. She sits in front of me. She’s hot.”
“How old are you again?”
“I’m almost ten. So what do you say, Uncle Jake? Okay?”
Well crap. “What time would I need to be there?”
“Eight-fifteen.”
“Until when?”
“Until you’ve made your presentation. Then you can go.”
I really didn’t want to do this, but the kid was in a spot and he didn’t ask for favors very often. “Okay,” I said.
“Thanks Uncle, Jake. You’re the best. This is really cool. I knew you’d help. Mom said you were too busy, but I knew you’d help me.”
That made me smile. “Okay. Where am I supposed to be at eight-fifteen?”
He gave me the school address and the room number. I told him I’d see him in a while.
Alex was waiting for me to explain, so I did.
Smiling, Alex said, “Just be ready for the questions.”
I walked into Taylor’s room at eight-thirteen. The teacher had put some normal sized chairs for parents along the back wall of the class. There were already four parents chatting among themselves as they waited. Taylor saw me, smiled and waved, and went to get his teacher. He brought her over and introduced us. He knew just what to do and he did it well. I was impressed. His teacher’s name was Ms. Robertson. We shook hands. She looked at her list and told me I was scheduled to speak in the seventh slot. Taylor would introduce me. I should talk for five minutes and then take questions for five minutes. I sat down and waited.
Ms. Robertson, an efficient middle-aged woman, got things started right on time. First up was Mr. Fromm, a CPA. His daughter, Wendy, introduced him. He talked about how interesting it was to do business accounting. No one had any questions for him. He thanked Ms. Robertson and left. Next was Mrs. Greenway, an attorney who specialized in criminal defense. Her son, Teddy, introduced her and explained that she helped protect the rights of people who were accused of crimes. Ms. Greenway talked about the constitution and the legal system. When she asked if there were any questions, one girl said that her dad said that criminal defense attorneys were one of the reasons why we have such a high crime rate. They keep putting the criminals back on the street. Ms. Greenway very tactfully disagreed.
The third parent was Mr. Hanlan. His son Jimmy explained that his father owned a software development company. Mr. Hanlan wowed everyone with a demonstration of his new program, a medical scanner that utilized a chip implanted under the skin at the base of the patient’s neck, that provides a continuous wireless readout of the patient’s vital statistics. One of the boys in the class wondered if it would work in a dog. Yes, it would, Mr. Hanlan assured him.
Fourth up was Mr. Krutcher, an author of detective mysteries. His daughter, Sandra, said one of his books was going to be made into a movie. That generated a lot of interest from the class during the question-answer session. When the kids started asking questions about the plot, Mr. Krutcher had to answer carefully. Obviously, the story was not one suitable for fourth graders. The fifth parent was Mrs. Overmeyer, CEO of a venture capital company that specialized in connecting entrepreneurs in developing world countries with investors in the West. I thought that was pretty interesting. I don’t think the kids really understood the concept.
Finally, it was my turn. Taylor went to the front of the class and called me up to stand beside him as he introduced me. He explained that his dad, an attorney, was sick and that I was his uncle and was filling in for his dad. He also explained that what I did was way cooler than what his dad did anyway so it was good that his dad got sick. I had to suppress a smile. Taylor explained a lot more than I thought he would, going into my background as a marine sniper, a former FBI agent, a former cage fighter, and now a private investigator. He explained that my agency, Badger Investigations and Assistance Agency, meant that in addition to investigating crimes and stuff, I also helped people with stuff, which he thought was really cool. I hadn’t realized Taylor had been paying that much attention.
Taylor sat down and I looked at the students. They were all focused intently on me. So were the seven adults in the back of the room. I explained that an investigator spent of lot of his or her time looking for information on the internet and talking to people. In many ways, I explained, it was not a very exciting job. I explained about doing background checks and trying to find missing people. I was intentionally trying to avoid the gritty, dangerous side of the job.
When I asked if there were any questions, a dozen hands flew up. I pointed to a boy in the middle of the class.
“Do you carry a gun?”
“Sometimes I do, like police officers, because sometimes the work can be dangerous.”
More hands went up. I acknowledged a girl in the front row.
“Have you ever shot anyone?”
“Allison,” Ms. Robertson said, “I’m not sure that’s the kind of question we should be asking Mr. Badger.”
“Actually,” I said, looking at Ms. Robertson, “I don’t mind.” Then, to Allison, I said, “Unfortunately, yes, I have. Sometimes, when you are trying to enforce the law or do the right thing, sometimes to defend yourself or someone else, you have to shoot people. But it’s always the last resort. I never hurt a person if I c
an keep from it.”
More hands. I pointed to a girl near the back.
“When you were a marine, did you get that PT… PT… what is it?”
“PTSD?”
“Yeah. PTSD. My uncle was a marine in Afghanistan. He got PTSD. Did you?”
“Uh, no. I didn’t. I was fortunate in that regard.”
“Did you know my uncle? His name is Steven Bradford.”
“No, I don’t think I knew him. There were a lot of people there and it is a big country. Sorry.”
A boy on the other side of the room raised his hand. I nodded at him.
“My grandpa says that if you fought in a war you are a hero, especially if you got wounded. Did you get wounded?”
“Yes, I did get wounded.”
“Where?”
I smiled. “I was shot in each of my legs and in my shoulder and arm.”
“Wow,” the boy said softly.
In the front row, a boy asked, “As a sniper, how many people did you shoot?”
Fortunately, at that point Ms. Robertson intervened. “Actually, class, I think we’ve gotten a little off track. The questions are supposed to about Mr. Badger’s work as a private investigator.
Another hand went up. A girl in the second row. Ms. Robertson acknowledged her. “Katy.”
“My mother says that guns are bad and that people who carry guns are bad people. Is that true?”
I looked at her for a brief moment. Ms. Robertson started to speak, but I held up my hand to stop her. I said, “A gun is just a thing. An object.” I stepped across the room to Ms. Robertson’s desk. “Like this stapler,” I said, holding it up. “This stapler is just a physical object. Until you pick it up and do something with it, it just sits there. When you pick it up, you can use it to staple sheets of paper together, or you can throw it at someone. You can use a baseball bat to hit a baseball, or to bash someone head in. But the bat is just a piece of wood that lays there until someone picks it up to use it. It’s the same with a gun. A gun is just a chunk of steel. It just lays there and does nothing until someone picks it up to use it.”
I could see that one of the dads in the back of the class was not happy with what I was saying, but I forged ahead. “Some of the people who use guns,” I said, “are bad people who use them badly. Some of the people who use them are good people who use them to defend themselves or others from bad people. Guns are neither good nor bad. They just are. People are either good or bad. What you have to decide is, what kind of a person you want to be.”
There was a moment when no one spoke. Then Ms. Robertson thanked me, and I thanked the class. I also thanked Taylor for inviting me. He was all smiles as I left the room.
As I was leaving the room, I noticed that one of the dads in the back of the room got up to follow me out. It was the guy who had not been happy with my comments about guns. He was a few steps behind me as I headed toward the parking lot.
“Hey, Badger,” he said, from behind me, sounding like he had something that tasted bad in his mouth.
I stopped and turned. When he caught up with me, he said, “You really think that was appropriate to say crap like that to a bunch of fourth graders?”
He was around forty. Six foot, one eighty. Trying desperately to look and sound formidable. I wasn’t interested in wasting my time on this guy so I ignored his question and walked away. He wasn’t smart enough to let it go. He followed.
“Hey, don’t walk away from me. I asked you a question.”
I kept walking.
“What’s the matter Badger? Can’t handle facing a grown man. Only good with fourth graders?”
I continued to ignore him and kept walking.
“Easy to be a tough guy in front of a bunch of kids, isn’t it? Turn around pussy, and face me.”
What an ass. I kept walking. We reached the small parking lot where our cars were and I headed across the newly painted blacktop toward my Wrangler.
I had just reached my Jeep when he said, “You’re gonna talk to me asshole.” He grabbed my left arm. I spun quickly to my left and put a hard right into his ribs. He doubled over. I took the front of his shirt in both my hands and lifted him off the ground, bringing his face up so that it was level with mine.
“I don’t like being called names and I don’t like being grabbed. You’re a stupid and silly little man. And if you ever bother me again, I’ll hurt you. Do you understand?”
When he didn’t answer I asked, “Do you want me to hit you again?”
“No,” he croaked.
“Then answer my question. Do you understand that you are not to bother me again?”
“Yes.”
“And do you understand that you are a stupid and silly little man?”
His eyes were filled with fear. He nodded.
While I still had him in the air, I said, “I was invited here to speak. While speaking, I was asked a question. It was a perfectly good question that deserved a reply. If a child is smart enough to ask the question, then he or she is smart enough to hear the answer. I offered my opinion. If you disagree with me, you have the right to express your own opinion. That’s the way it works in America. You don’t have to like my opinions; I don’t have to like yours. But we have to allow each other to express them. You understand that, right?”
He said, “Yes.”
“Good. Now I’m going to put you down and you’re going to turn around a walk away, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
I lowered him so that his feet were touching the ground. But before letting go of his shirt, I said, “One other thing. You should try odorless garlic. Because you stink.” Then I let him go. He turned and hurried away. I watched him. He went into the boy’s restroom.
Chapter 18
It was a little after ten before I got back to my office. Jessie had emailed me a name of one of the principles at Security Specialists—Jasper Pipestone. Jasper Pipestone? I hoped he hadn't had to call in a favor to get it. Not because it was a silly name, and it was a silly name, but because in the world of government agencies and operatives, favors are more valuable than gold. I hoped Jessie had not spent too much to get the name for me. Now all I had to do was figure out if Jasper, or someone else at Security Specialists, had killed Jason. If they had, what was I going do about it?
While I was thinking about that, my cell phone rang. It was my father.
“Hi, Dad.” Phone calls with dad were an interesting process. Dad would type his opening comment, place his call, put his iPhone on speaker, and then lay it next to his computer. When I answered, he hit the speak button.
“Morning, Jake. Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
He typed.
“I just wanted to say thank you for the job you did for Lucy. You were thorough and fast and everyone was dumbfounded with what you discovered. Very impressive, Son.”
That made me smile. “Thank you, Dad. I appreciate you taking the time to call. But the truth is, I just got lucky on that one. I stumbled into it. That wasn't the result of superior detecting skills.”
Mildred sat down in one of my guest chairs and smiled at me as my father typed his reply. It took him a while so I gathered it would be a lengthy comment.
“Nonsense,” the electronic voice said. “You saw what was going on, you recognized it for what it was, and you extracted a usable confession. It was good work, Jake. You made me proud and the partners were very impressed.”
“Well, again, thank you. What about Lucy?”
He typed.
“Lucy was, shall I say, grudgingly impressed. She is not use to having someone talk to her the way you did.”
“I hope I didn't embarrass you in that regard.”
“Son,” his computer said, “even though I had hoped you would want to join me here and be part of this firm, I am proud of who you are. You have never embarrassed me.”
“I appreciate that, Dad.”
After we disconnected, Mildred said, “Sounds like that went well.”
/>
“He seemed truly appreciative,” I said.
“I'm sure he was.”
“Well, we'll see. One case at a time.”
Alex was working on scheduling more meetings with the rest of the people who had known the details of my sting operation. Later in the day I would go see Norman Hanson again. But at the moment, I thought the best use of my time would be to annoy Jasper Pipestone at Security Specialists.
Their offices were in a small industrial park in Reseda. Nothing spectacular, but not shabby either. I parked next to a new red Ford F150 and went in. The carpet was a light sand color. The walls were white. The furnishings could have been purchased from any office supply store in the country. An overweight, twenty-something receptionist who looked like she'd rather be anywhere else but there asked if she could help me. She did not smile. I always find that quite annoying.
“I'd like to see Jasper Pipestone,” I said
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Mr. Pipestone is very busy. You need an appointment.”
I don't have a lot of patience for nonsense, especially from criminals. I also didn't like receptionists who were not cheerful and helpful.
“Do you schedule appointments for Jasper?” I asked.
“For Mr. Pipestone, yes.”
I looked at my watch. “It's eleven ten,” I said. “Why don't you schedule me an appointment for twelve after eleven.”
Her expression turned from sulky to annoyed.
“Better yet,” I said, “tell Jasper that Jake Badger is here to talk to him about the death of James Falcon, an undercover DEA agent.”
The look of annoyance became one of concern.
“I'll let him know,” she said, as she stood. She went through a door that was behind and to the right of her desk and disappeared down a hallway.
I timed her. In twenty-two seconds she was back.
